


so what.

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Bad Flirting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sex, Sexual Tension, Stupidity, THEY ARE BAD AT THIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: There was only one way he could think of to get Brienne of Tarth sweating and swearing and tangled with him — and he dangled it before her like bait.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written 15 July 2019.
> 
> *
> 
> this is a practice in writing fluff, which WOW does not come naturally, can you tell.
> 
> i do not call it “fluff practice” because that makes me think of fluffing which is a very different sort of career choice

There was only one way he could think of to get Brienne of Tarth sweating and swearing and tangled with him — and he dangled it before her like bait. “We can _spar_.”

“Not interested.” She pushed past him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

“I need to practice. You know I do.”

“I’m too busy.”

“Oh? and what are you doing right now with your valuable time? Lady Sansa has plenty of other people to protect her from trees and rabbits. I know she told you to find something to do. Why not me? — why not with me, I mean.”

“No.”

“Tell me who should I call on instead? Tyrion? That ghastly Jon Snow? Bronn would do well but he talks too much, and anyway if I spend more time with him people will think we’re bedding down of a night.”

“What people think of you is not my problem, thank the gods.”

”Sparring would be — I would _enjoy_ it. And maybe you would too.”

“I doubt that.” She stopped. “Are you really just going to follow me around til I give in?”

He ignored this remark, because of course he was. “Come on, Brienne. You’re the best I’ve ever seen. Aside from myself,” thoughtfully.

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow and didn’t answer.

“Please? Just one week. Just one day. A morning. One _bout_. Please.” He was closer to her than he ought to be; he was close enough to touch her face. Rub her mouth with his thumb and hold her there while he leaned in — “Please.”

She let out a long sigh, cloudy in the cold air. “One bout. And if you beat me, we’ll keep going.”

The only way he would beat her is if she had no weapons and hands tied behind her back. And even then, he thought she might win. “Better clear all your mornings, wench. I’m going to best you so often, you’ll wonder why you bothered leaving that island.”

He lost.

Brienne wore an odd expression on her face, like she was trying to hold something in. She said: “You know you’ll never get it back. Your sword hand.”

Jaime sat on the low wall and stretched out his legs. “Doubt it would be much good to me at this point, anyway. Do you think it’s still at Harrenhall? Think of that. Somewhere, my bones might be giving a middle finger to those hallowed walks. What a marvelous thing.”

“It was _always_ your right hand, you said. The left wasn’t ... wasn’t ever any good.”

He laughed. “You mean this little bit of nothing? Today was a fluke. It’s these new boots — Tyrion gave them me and they’re a bit stiff yet.”

”It’s not your feet.”

”That reminds me. I don’t like to criticize a lady but really, you could make use of new clothes. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed. Do you even draw a salary, Brienne? We could find some title for you. Lady of the Shields, or something.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

She pitied him.

So Jaime stalked off to find the one person he could trust to never feel sorry for him: his brother.

“I feel sorry for you,” Tyrion said, three bottles into the evening. “All bound up in your old ideas.”

Jaime was not at all sure that statement would make sense even if he’d been drinking water. “What are you on about?”

“You lost a hand. So what? I lost a nose, another wife, and a lover. Daenerys lost a dragon. Our sister lost a country, or possibly several, depending on how you look at it.”

“ _So what,_ huh.”

“It’s been years. Get on with things.”

“What things.”

“You know perfectly well what _things_ you are avoiding, and I don’t see any reason to point out the obvious. Instead may I take this chance to say that you are very taciturn and rude tonight. If I wanted rudeness there are plenty of other people to go to for it. Might as well be drinking with Bronn. Or that great beast of a woman you knighted.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“As I said ... you know what you’re avoiding.” Tyrion poured another cup of wine and pushed it forward. “And I’m glad to help you avoid anything you wish, but for gods’ sake please stop _moping_. If you need to get fucked, go fuck. If you need something to cry about, call for a musician; they’ll move you to tears one way or another. Right now you are here with me. With me, you drink.”

Far far far too early the next morning, he woke to a pounding on the door that matched the pounding in his head almost exactly.

Jaime crawled out of bed, put his hand on the door — closed his eyes — briefly prayed it was anyone but Brienne — and opened it.

“You are late _,_ ” said the Maid.

He squinted. “Please tell me that this human form is nothing, and you are in fact the Warrior come to escort me to the peaceful halls of death.”

“ _Dress_ , Lannister. This was your idea. Or would you prefer Bronn’s beatings to mine?”

No. He would not. Bronn and his conversation made Jaime feel like he had a hangover every day, even when he’d spent the night cold sober.

“Low,” she said, sounding bored. “Sloppy cross-step. You’re open, where’s your guard? Drop your shoulder and keep your elbow up, you’re not a squire!”

He gritted his teeth. “It is up.”

“Elbow _up_ , Lannister! _Stop_ dropping your guard, _stop_ forgetting which side you’re fighting on, and move your goddamn feet!”

She was treating him like a child. He _felt_ like a child. So he threw the blunted tourney sword, which he’d never been permitted to do even with a wooden one; a real knight treated his weapons with respect, etc. etc.

The sword landed pathetically several feet away and the clatter of steel on stone did nothing to improve his headache or his mood.

“Very impressive. Is that the last tantrum you’ll throw, my lord?”

“No,” he said. “No. Not the last. I expect to throw many more tantrums and many more swords, and I expect you to scorn me and judge me every time I do.”

He had to look away from her eyes, then; he had to. 

So he went to fetch the weapon. “Take your stance, ser Brienne. We’ll begin on your count.”

And the sun was too bright — that must have been it — because he almost thought she smiled.

The best part of sparring was afterwards. They walked back together, tired and satisfied; he could nearly taste her sweat on his tongue, taste _her_ , just from being nearby ... and without being overtly creepy and inappropriate, probably. Hopefully.

He definitely didn’t get this little perk with Bronn. Nor was Bronn half so luscious in trousers.

And Brienne, bless her, was oblivious to all but the most lecherous of stares. So she didn’t notice when he fell back half a step to admire her rear.  
  
—until he became overly-distracted, tripped over his own feet, tried to catch himself with his right hand —

— and then she was there helping him up, her hand on his back and her face so close he could just lean forward and do anything he wanted, say anything he wanted — “You need a bath.”

“So do you.”

Jaime swallowed. “Join me?”

Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were a clear perfect blue and for a second, a single beautiful instant that might well have been marked with harpists and angelic choirs, he thought she was going to say yes.

Instead she turned her back and marched onward. Damn her eyes.

Brienne skipped dinner, she was with Sansa Stark in the afternoon, and she took supper in her room that night.

Jaime sorely missed her. He was seated between a noisy Bronn and a drunk Tyrion. He could only listen to their one-upping stories about nights of passion.

Brienne, he thought. _Brienne_.

She had never pitied him before, never. Even when she heard him puking and crying, unable to hide it. She told him he was still capable.

And now, now ... she saw him at home and thought he was worth giving up on.

He stood up and left, ignoring the calls for him to stay.

Brienne was half undressed; she opened the door at once and blinked at him like she’d expected someone else.

Jaime pushed past. “I know you’re angry with me,—“

“Angry?”

“Or upset. Unhappy. Brienne, I have spent all evening listening to my brother try very hard to convince everyone within earshot that his cock is a miracle. I welcome any change of topic. Have it out. Tell me what you want to say. I don’t care what it is, as long as if isn’t about that.”

“Why are you here?”

“I just told you, I was listening to—“

“Why are you _here_. Why are you in — in my room.”

“Why did you let me in?”

She stammered.

She was pink to her ears, he noticed, and also on her arms and up the length of her legs — “You had your bath.”

“Yes. The maids should be here soon to carry it out. I thought that was you — that you were them, rather.”

Well. Alright, then.

He unlaced his shirt.

“... Jaime?”

The knot at his hips was harder to undo, and it grew more difficult with Brienne’s eyes on him, that flush on her that extended down her throat and neck and how far down?

“Jaime, I don’t — you shouldn’t —“

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

“Yes,” she said, grim, as if the memory of his body was a cross she would bear her entire life. “I didn’t intend to see it twice.”

“I’ll turn around. Spare you the main event.” He had to anyway, or she’d see he was half-ready. Oh yes, he told himself, scornful. Best not to alarm her with an erection. _Lannister!_

The water was still warm, already clouded from her soap; he liked that. She’d been there just a moment ago, naked.

Wet all over.

He sank further down. “You’re still looking, Brienne of Tarth.”

“You have a bruise.” She reached, and did not quite touch. “And there’s another one. And a third.”

He lifted his eyes. “You do neat work with a tourney sword.”

“I’m sorry.” She settled next to the bathtub and rested on her heels. “You’re the one who asked for it.”

He had. “Would you give me more if I wanted?”

“Every day. I like sparring with you.”

“What — why is that? May I ask.”

“It’s good. You are good.”

“I’m godawful,” he said, amused by this generosity. “No need to lie.”

“You are not what you were. But the basics are there, Jaime. And more. Your body knows what to do, it keeps the memory inside it. They can’t cut that out of you.”

“Yes. I remember. But what good is it to me when it’s all backwards, mirrored?”

She shook her head: whether she could not answer or didn’t want to, he didn’t know. “You don’t fight backwards now. It’s not ... When we were in the Riverlands and you stole that sword and fought me off and I nearly drowned you —“

“Yes, thank you. I recall the event.”

“The way we moved together, it was like ... dancing. Better than that. It’s never like that, not with anyone else.”

His mouth was dry. “Dancing. Yes. Indeed.”

“Or swimming.” Her voice was dreamy; she leaned her elbow on the rim of the bath and her head on her hand. “When you’re in the ocean and it’s all around you, enveloping you and supporting you, salty and warm ...”

“Brienne ...”

She brushed a piece of hair out of his face, and leaned forward, and stopped.

He saw the exact moment when her mind caught up to her. “No,” he said. “Brienne, don’t.”

— Don’t second guess yourself, don’t think I don’t want this, don’t hesitate and worry —

She stood up, red as he’d ever seen her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll go.”

“No — wait — dammit!”

But by the time he’d hauled himself out, she was gone.

Briefly he considered chasing her like this, in his altogether. Why not? Half the people wouldn’t care and the other half would enjoy it. What was the harm?

She would care. That was the harm.

So he simply dried himself and dressed and left to find his own room, feeling grieved and guilty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kiss Jaime Lannister” was on Brienne’s top-ten list of things to do with her life since she’d been a girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 16 July 2019.

“Kiss Jaime Lannister” was in the top-ten list of things to do with her life since she’d been a girl and first seen him on some tourney field, far away and sparkling. She couldn’t make out facial features at that distance but something in how he moved was ... interesting. Even in bulky armor he looked comfortable and cool, like he knew what he was doing. And Brienne — fifteen, tall, ugly, and awkwardly untalented in feminine pursuits — Brienne wanted to know what she was doing.

She gripped the edge of her chair.

Her father leaned in and said something, low over the noise.

“Oh yes,” said Brienne, who hadn’t heard a word. “Absolutely.”

When she found courage to look out again, Jaime was gone.

The list of Things To Do was _generally_ headed by “become a knight” and “win against Jaime Lannister”, not always in that order. She did not expect to do either one. Girls did not become knights — even gawky motherless girls from an isolated backwater; and if even half the stories about Jaime were true, he was very, very good.

She might have been almost as happy with “lose to Jaime Lannister” — but (she thought) it was not likely that she would get the chance.

Then the war happened, and Catelyn Stark said _I need your service with ransoming a prisoner,_ and then they were walking to Kings Landing and suddenly he was near enough to kiss, after all.

... Not that she wanted to do it anymore. Who could have imagined that body and that face and that skill would conceal the most annoying and dishonorable man in existance? It was the emotional equivalent of a trap pit.

And he would not stop _talking_. “I’ve spent most of my life fucking my sister,” he began, and continued on. Nothing stopped him and apparently nothing suited him: not the idyllic weather, not the comfortable terrain, not her face and company. Certainly he did not like being bound and trussed like a game hen.

Her patience broke. “Oh, really? How unusual. Most people _love_ being kept prisoner.”

“I am not _most people_ , wench, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

“I haven’t seen anything impressive about you,” said Brienne. “Walk.”

He twisted round to give her a smile. “I can show you something impressive, but I need my hands free to unlace my trousers—“

“You can choose to hold your tongue or I can gag you, Kingslayer. It’s the same to me.”

After that he stopped speaking so completely that he seemed to become a different person: even his body stance changed, becoming ... more.

Brienne, walking steadily behind, flushed red.

She blushed again when she was laying camp for the night (he gallantly offered to help, if she’d only untie him?) and Jaime asked if she were a virgin. “Big beast of a thing like you, there must have been lines outside your bedroom, hoping to climb that mountain. Did anyone break through those guarded walls and just ...” He smiled.

“The famous Lannister wit.”

“You should meet my brother. On second thought, no. He would probably hire you on as an aide to his torment of me.”

“I‘d always heard you and Lord Tyrion were close,” she said, startled.

“We are. Not of course in the same way as myself and Cersei —“

Of course not, thought Brienne. She set up kindling for a quick hot fire and managed not to roll her eyes.

“—but we share an affection for the finer things. Wine. Women. He is somewhat less choosy than I am about both, while you are an exceptionally choosy wench. Are you waiting for some white-clad knight to sweep you off your feet and unto your back? It’s not likely to happen.”

She stripped off shreds of bark for tinder, adding loose hair from her own head, and struck her steel. Not a glancing blow, her father had said, but not quite a scrape either.

She’d like to deliver a very _direct_ blow to Jaime Lannister’s face. Right on his mouth, maybe. His lip would split and drip blood, and he wouldn’t be able to speak comfortably, and his eyes would respect her, and ... and was it the thought of that that caught the fire, smoking and smoldering under her hands?

“I think,” said Jaime, as if she cared, “that we humans place too much emphasis on _waiting_ and _deliberation_. So what about marriage? Why _shouldn’t_ you go out and fuck someone? A fuck is a fuck. Even if you have to pay them. Your virginity is a burden to you, anyone can see that. It’s obvious. You walk like you’ve had a stick shoved up your arse. Why not cure it with a nice cock in your—”

She crouched down in front of him til they were eye to eye, hands on her legs, waiting.

“Are you going to give it a go, my lady? The position is a bit unusual. Not my favorite. I’d certainly give a more memorable performance if you untie me. But I’ve heard some like it this way, too. It takes all kinds of folks.”

“Do you remember what I told you this morning? Kingslayer.”

He sighed. “Some dull threat about a gag.”

“Your memory is exceptional.”

Quiet and still he was then for a long time, and let her get on with things that needed to be done. She warmed up supper (dried meat boiled in water for broth), and gave him a portion.

He blinked at her. “What is this?”

“I don’t believe in starving prisoners.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t believe I enjoy being starved.”

Then: blessed silence.

Brienne did nothing and thought almost nothing, eating slowly, watching the sparks fly upwards.

Jaime said: “You make a tidy fire. It’s burning well.”

There was no mockery in his face, search as she might. “I learned as a child.”

“So did I, though I was never very good at it.”

“If you’d had to build and light your own these years since, you would have ample experience.”

“No doubt you’re right. There was always someone else to do it for me. I’ve grown soft.” He was angled away from the light, his face in shadow, changeable; only his voice was clear.

Mocking, she thought. Mocking her?

No. He was angry with himself. For being captured, for being a pawn moved between players ...

She thought of what it would mean to be a prisoner and a Lannister, unransomed and unrescued. He had either absolute faith in his family or none at all, to be this blandly accepting of it. “Not all of you is soft.”

He made a choking sound. “That’s certainly true. Don’t supposed I can convince you to do anything about it ...”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sleep, wench. No one’s going to accost you tonight. Including me.”

She shut her eyes. “If you try, I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me? And break your oath? Never say it.”

“I could say we were set on by bandits. Thieves. Who’s to say otherwise? Not you.”

“I would, too. I‘d show up in your dreams every night to howl at you until you admit the truth of it.”

She lay down on her side, face away from him, and did not mention that he had already figured predominately in several of her dreams. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 16 July 2019.

Jaime wondered, vaguely, when it was he had first wanted to fuck the unimportant daughter of some minor lord ruling over a stupid island that no one had ever bothered to conquer because it was too small & far away to be worth the trouble.

Not in the Riverlands. Not the baths. Not when he dreamed about her. Not afterwards either, in Kings Landing. When?

He felt like a stupid teenager with his first hard-on. _Please like me._ He couldn’t imagine she cared about flowers or lute music or gowns or ... or ... whatever the hell women enjoyed.

What did he know about _women,_ anyway? He only knew Cersei, who wasn’t a fair representation in any way. Maybe he should ask Tyrion. Or Sansa Stark. But Tyrion would mock him and Sansa would give him that baneful stare and refuse to answer, looking so like her mother that he could barely refrain from pointing it out, knowing she would send Brienne to stomp him if he did.

He did what he could. _Have my sword. Here is new armor._ Good, practical things that she certainly couldn’t afford on her own. And she’d only accept gifts if there were a good reason, which was fine — but her “good reasons” were all impossibly stupid. Things like _it would help someone else._

So what if it helped someone else _? Fuck_ other people. Who mattered, if not Brienne?

The only thing he knew to do — the only thing she responded to — was annoy her. And that wasn’t much, it wasn’t anywhere near enough. It was barely a start.

At least he enjoyed it.

Winter slipped over Winterfell. The mornings were bright with frost; the afternoons had a perfect moment of purely golden light before the evening came and sent them all shivering to bed, and (in Jaime’s case) frustratingly alone.

One day he woke to find the air changed and the floors like goddamn ice. He unlatched the shutters and swung them open, shivering.

Outside, the world was frozen and mute. White clung to every outcropping, every branch and twig and dead hanging leaf, every soft stretched branch of fir. Thicker drifts sloped against the walls and, though someone had been up early to clear the courtyard, a faint dust of snow restlessly tumbled and eddied across the stones. 

He dressed quickly, wishing he still had servants to start a fire. Self-sufficiency was overrated.

Searching for something warm to drink, he found Brienne. She looked enchanted — enchanting; it was all he could do to bite back the traitorous softness, sit next to her on the window seat, and say in an arrogantly smug tone: “First time seeing snow, my lady?”

“It never happens on Tarth." She hadn’t turned; she was still looking outside, face bright and yearning.

She would not, of course, go outside to enjoy herself. She was probably the sort of person who thought standing a moment outside a bakery to inhale the good smell of baking bread was some sort of theft. Ridiculously moral. 

So he tugged on her arm until she jerked it away and stood up, scowling at him.

He smiled. “Let’s go.”

They went out past the kitchen gardens, through the wind-break of trees — Brienne kept trying to turn around and look at things. It was only Jaime’s hand twined with hers that kept her moving forward.

Here the snow was deeper; it was more wading than walking, a sort of drag-and-lift pattern.

Brienne kept laughing, watching their feet spash around the powder.

They stopped in a grove. Brienne let go his hand to push back her hair. She kept touching the snow and trying to hold it, brushing it off her hands when it began to melt.

“Oh, Jaime. It’s so beautiful.”

Something about how she said his name — he couldn’t breathe, his chest clenched tight.

She was happy. He’d never seen her happy.

Why hadn’t he ever seen her happy until now?

Jaime couldn’t watch her anymore. He cleared his throat and crouched down, gathering snow together into a sphere. It was sloppy, one-handed, but it would do. “Brienne?”

She looked over: and for once, thank the gods, his aim was true. She wiped her face clean, sputtering. “That was _rude!”_

“Only you would worry about politeness on the battlefield. Come on, weren’t you ever a child? Fight with me! Spar.”

She had a better arm than he did nowadays, but she was slower on shaping the projectiles. They were well-matched in this. And Jaime felt again what it was to fight without being a cripple.

It didn’t hurt; he had only a queer sense of recognition, like seeing a childhood friend in a crowd years after you’ve drifted apart and stopped speaking. _Yes, that’s what it was. I remember._

And it cannot be again.

But he had this day. The sun was thin and clear, the air cold enough to burn his lungs. The world had had its colors drained away except for Brienne, wearing green wool so dark it had looked black, inside. It was only her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth.

Nothing and no one else was nearby.

She had forgotten their snowball war, distracted by a tree whose every branch was outlined white on black on white. She said again, “It’s so beautiful and — and _clean_. The world looks entirely new.” Turning to him: “Thank you.”

He would do anything to keep that expression on her face. He’d make it snow every day for the rest of her life, if she wanted it. Controling the weather couldn’t be so hard. He’d speak to every maester from here to the Wall, he’d try anything, if it made Brienne look at him like that one more time.

He couldn’t say any of this. 

And he wasn’t going to kiss her. He was _not_.

“You have snow in your hair.” She reached out and touched it, and then down the side of his face.

Jaime resolutely said nothing.

She said, not moving: “Don’t look at me like that, like — like — I don’t know.”

“My face is my face. If you don’t want to see it, shut your eyes.”

She frowned at him and his heart turned over and he kissed her.

Once, only once, he was only going to do this _one time_. But she leaned into him and her mouth opened so perfectly and if they never stopped kissing they wouldn’t have to _talk_ about it which sounded marvelously clever at first but was in fact not an ideal plan, in main part because kissing was not the limit of his goals regarding her.

He shifted away. “Brienne.”

Brienne swallowed, hard. She was still frowning — her cheeks were bright red and her mouth was swollen and she hadn’t hit him at all, not even once.

Suddenly his goals seemed almost attainable.

Just as suddenly, he was very very tired. “Come on, wench. Let’s walk back.”

“ _Jaime,”_ wretched.

“I know.” He took her hand. “Come on. Home. We don’t have to talk about it.”

_Not_ talking about it turned out to be as difficult as having the conversation. He caught Brienne staring at him four times during the afternoon meeting, and every time he met her eyes she gulped and shifted so she was again staring grimly forward, back tense and straight.

They met again the next morning to practice as usual; the yard was free, snow largely cleared away from the main areas.

They fought without speaking at all. The only noise was the chatter of blades meeting, strangely dulled.

And Jaime disarmed her.

It was so unexpected that he looked down at his hand to make sure it wasn’t his own sword, somehow? No.

Brienne was crimson. “I lost my focus.”

Jaime smiled. “Something on your mind?”

She growled and attacked him, and he returned to the more comfortable state of losing to her over and over.

“What did you mean the other day,” he said to her, eating together, sopping up soup with bread, “saying that I don’t fight _backwards_ from before _?_ Of course I do. It’s all reversed.”

“No. You’re still going forwards.”

“But the moves—”

“You are overthinking this. You’re expecting it to be hard, expecting to fail, because you broke your heart over losing your hand and you can’t accept that ... that it’s healed, or as good as. You don’t need to be broken anymore.”

Jaime didn’t move. “How long have you wanted to say this to me?”

She looked at her food.

”How long, Brienne?”

No response.

”Very well. Shall we talk about something else? That’s a fine idea. Let’s discuss your first experience of snow. Did you like it?”

She colored.

“Would you like to do it again? Because I could go for a good romp right now. What about you? Shall we go back and ... play?”

She left.

Jaime, much disgruntled, finished his meal alone.

“I apologize.”

It didn’t matter. He kept looking outside. The snow was a bare day old and already dying; it was half-collapsed with melting, mottled with holes from animals and men stomping across. Even the trees had lost much of their lacy, ethereal grace, snow-stacks toppled down by wind.

But the night was on and the moon was risen, hugely swollen; the light she poured down reflected up nearly bright as day.

“What do you have to apologize for?”

“I hurt you.”

“You didn’t take my hand off.”

“No, but —“

“And you’re right. I’ve been ... whinging. I need to stop. It’s got to be tiresome. I know you don’t want to hear it. _I_ don’t want to hear it. You were right when you told me I’d never had any consequences in my life, except that.”

“That is not at all the truth.” She sat down next to him, drawing her feet up on the bench and tucking her toes under his leg. “You were broken. Someone else might have been shattered entirely. Do you know why I — trust you?”

Jaime shook his head. _I didn’t know that you did,_ he wanted to say, and realized how stupid that was — but he’d never thought of it like that. Trust. “Because ... Harrenhall? The bear pit?”

Brienne shook her head, but didn’t really answer. Instead: “I liked the snow.” And she leaned in to kiss him, soft.

He felt like he had taken wing, covered in light; he felt awkward and shy and about thirteen years old. “... We need to talk.”

“Not tonight,” she said, and kissed him again, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she trusts Jaime because he is Jaime.
> 
> *
> 
> technically Kings Landing is “King’s Landing”, which misguided choice of apostrophe placement grates so heavily on my nerves i cannot cannot bear to write it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 17 July 2019.

Jaime, true to form, continued to be equal parts annoying and devastating.

The annoying bits were easy enough to deal with; she could practice with him and watch him “die” half a hundred times — that was very satisfying; and every so often he was a good opponent, which was even better.

Lady Sansa was available for sundry conversations about non-troublesome topics, and if she wanted to complain about Jaime, Tyrion was generally around and drunk enough to listen, though he _was_ a Lannister.

The problem wasn’t him being rude, frustrating, arrogant, proud, and beautiful — so what? Brienne had weapons for that.

The trouble was: she didn’t know what to do against kindness.

He dragged her out to see the snow simply because she wanted to see it, and when he arrived to supper first he waited and kept a space for her to sit. Brienne thought he’d kissed her because she wanted it, too.

How humiliating, how shameful it all was. Wanting something — some one — was terrible enough, but she’d never been able to correct herself, she couldn’t stomp it down. When she wasn’t paying attention the little green roots came up and grew and grew and strangled her. Like Renly, like ...

 _You know he prefers curly haired little boys,_ Jaime had said. He was rather scornful of other people’s potentially-embarrassing revelations, considering he had (repeatedly) told her that he was fucking his sister.

He said that about Renly to hurt her — Brienne knew that — and it worked: but not in the way he intended. She wasn’t shocked, she wasn’t envious. She only _ached_.

She put her head in her hands.

Had she loved Renly because he was safe? because she could care for him and it didn’t matter to him, it wouldn’t ever matter? She would stay pure and aloof and alone.

That’s what her septa had called it — _purity_. And _honor_. _Keep your honor intact for your husband,_ and _Stop running around with those boys, no one will believe you’re still pure!_

Brienne had brushed it off as foolishness, like the stories of wargs and talking birds. But it was true, wasn’t it? No one believed she was a maid or cared, except when they could use it to mock her — or try and take it from her — a different sort of joke where her body was the punchline. She and Jaime had spent two weeks alone and not a thing had happened between them, not a single thing, even when they were both naked and she had him in her arms.

And she was called his whore. 

At least (she thought) Jaime was disgraced for the truth. Rightly or wrong, he _had_ killed Aerys. Whereas she ...

She watched him practice with Bronn and felt again that old, tired ache.

They’d kissed in the woods and then they had a row and now he was angry with her. She felt sick over it and hated herself for feeling sick, and hated him for doing it and ...

Sometimes it was in one part of her body and sometimes another, and sometimes it kept her awake with restless ideas of his mouth on her, saying and doing things that the real, waking Jaime would never never do.

It couldn’t be shameful to imagine things, could it? Especially when they wouldn’t happen.

She’d never thought of that — never — oh yes he was beautiful and his mouth was distracting and he looked like some molten god, but bedding was very different from kissing, she thought, they really weren’t connected at all. It was more common to see fucking than kissing, even in the street.

But Jaime closed his eyes and kissed her like she were the most delicate piece of spun-glass, and Brienne —

He was late to supper.

Bronn regarded her. “Likely he’s only gone for a piss, Lady Brienne.”

“I wasn’t looking for him.” It would be so easy to like Bronn; but how could she trust a man who would sell his sword?

You don’t have to trust someone to drink with them, Tyrion had told her, when she’d refused his wine. That made her smile; but it did not make her drink.

When Jaime did come he only spoke to her politely, and his eyes were dark.

It started when he gave her that stupid sword. He’d caught her and trapped her and it was almost flattering to be so well-known, and that was even worse; he couldn’t be flattering her for any good reason. No one who looked like that would have a good impulse towards her. Ugly beast of a cow, he’d told her, repeatedly. I wouldn’t have thought it possibly but you’re even uglier in a dress. And. And.

And it didn’t matter even that he had stopped saying it; she didn’t need to hear the words for them to be true.

He caught her in a hallway and kissed her until she was dizzy with it, and standing like that — close together, sheltered in the dark — she could feel him there, hard. “Stop,” she said, when he moved to her neck and bit marks into her skin, saying disgraceful things no one should ever say aloud and not about her — “Jaime. Stop.”

And that time he heard her, and stopped.  
“Come to bed with me,” he said.

“I can’t.” It was the wrong thing to say, to argue, being here at all was wrong and she was a fool for allowing it & wanting it. Hoping he’d find her, as she had hoped.

“Why not. Why not. You want me —“

“I don’t,” she protested, rather weakly.

He ignored this. “—and I want you —“

“You don’t.” Of this, she was certain.

A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth, and he was a while in replying. “We’ll have this discussion later, when we’re both feeling more rational. Perhaps when I am sitting on a block of ice.”

She thought he’d kiss her again, then: but he only left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not at all what i intended but poking at it isn’t helping. ARGH.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ready for that conversation yet?”  
> “No. Jaime, I’m all sweat and —“  
> “So call a bath.”  
> “Not with you here.”  
> “It wouldn’t be the first time. Are you afraid I’ll join you?” He smiled. “Or afraid I won’t.”

“Not tonight,” she had said, and it turned out that “tonight“ was _every night_ , like some monstrous cruel riddle where your hearts desire is your downfall.

Jaime, a lion, stalked his prey.

She was sorting things in one of the unused bedrooms, making sure there was nothing important before furniture and goods were put to use elsewhere. She was dusty, grimy, and dressed in her oldest clothes.

He sat next to her and kissed her until she gasped and pulled away. “Jaime—”

In the kitchens, helping peel vegetables, in front of a passel of serving girls talking and giggling: he took her face in his hand and kissed her, kissed her, and only stopped when he felt himself become embarrassingly hard.

The girls stared, Brienne blushed, and Jaime left.

Sparring.

She slipped his guard and hit his arm and his sword skidded away; he make a pained face and wrung the shock out of his arm while she, looking guilty, picked it up and brought it over.

He ignored the sword and kissed her instead.

She made a noise that in anyone else he’d call a whimper. “Don’t.”

“Fine. I won’t, for now. When should I resume?”

“Not in public! Not where people can look at me ... us.”

He looked at her until she dropped her eyes. “If you wanted me alone in your rooms, you only needed to say so.”

“I didn’t mean—“

“I know what you meant. It’s fine. Stance, ready? On three ...”

In her room, where he’d followed her, so close that he was in danger of stepping on her heels every moment. “Jaime,” she said at the closed door. “Stop. Go away. I need to undress.”

“I can help you with that.”

“I don’t want you — don’t want you to.”

“Then I’ll just watch. Come on, Brienne. Let me in. We need to — talk.”

One curt nod.

He pretended not to notice that her hand was shaking.

*

She expected him to pounce as soon as the door shut but instead he hung back, watching narrowly, while she undressed.

”You said you trust me.”

”I do.” Stripping off her wool tunic, sadly not worn next to the skin. “You’ve never hurt me.”

”Then why not? Why no? Brienne, this is ... bedding — it’s not what you make it out to be, in your mind. Whatever momentous earth shattering thing your septa warned you about, I don’t know, but she was wrong. It’s only bodies. Movement. Heat.”

She was stripped now — as far as she would go with him in the room. A long-sleeved shift, her trousers — she’d taken off her stockings —

It was too far for propriety and not nearly far enough for Jaime.

Touching her face, fingers dragging down to her neck. “Only your body, with my body. Like fighting. Remember that? I stole the sword and you were furious. You nearly killed me. Didn’t it get your blood moving? The way we were together?

”One person,” kissing her face, her eyes, the corner of her mouth, “with another person.”

If that was so, why was it only his body that made her stupid and weak-willed, able to let anything happen if he only kept kissing her like that ... 

“You know what happens,” he was saying. “I’m sure you’ve ... tried things, when you’re alone.”

“Jaime.“

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, sounding so damned reasonable she almost did tell him. Yes, she’d say, and often, and this is how I wanted you. Can you feel it?

She did want him. Bodies. She pulled off his shirt and finally, finally got to touch that skin, all golden. Lannister gold. 

His hand was tugging at something at her hip. “Tell me to stop, Brienne. Say No. Shake your head. Say anything, if this isn’t what you want.”

“J-Just bodies? Jaime. Do you promise?” If that was so, why was it only his body that made her ... stupid? His eyes. His smile.

“Of course. You think this is a mental exercise?”

No. There was nothing left of her mind; it was all scattered. She was only the parts of her he was touching, kissing, leaving dampness where his mouth left —

“That was a nice noise,” said the amused, sounding more like a lord than he had in ages. “I didn’t think ...”

He didn’t finish.

“What — didn’t think what?” Oh gods, he couldn’t have thought about this, she would die of humiliation on the spot. Wanting was bad enough, but ...

“You’re so damned prickly in conversation, I imagined you would be ... somewhat difficult to coax. And here you are. Ready to collapse after a few kisses and a hand in your shirt.”

“Don’t tease me,” she pled. “You’re the awful one. The way you look at me, I ...”

He let out a laugh, muffled by her neck. “You finally noticed?”

“Finally? Jaime, I — I only agreed to spar because I want to hit you, the way you make me feel, hit you or kiss you or — or — I don’t know —“

“Kiss me, then—“

Afterwards:

“You lied, Jaime Lannister.”

“Never. What did I say?”

“You said it was only bodies.”

She was watching his face and saw the quick flicker of — fear? before he brought back his old mask, and laughed. “I couldn’t tell you everything. Where’s the fun in no surprises? And anyway, some things can’t be explained. Not orally.” He smiled. “Though we can try that, if you want.”

“To explain?”

“Nevermind,” he said. “Nevermind for right now, Brienne of ... wherever.”

And she would have argued, or kissed him, or hit him; but he was asleep and then so was she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so.  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> So what. Stop whining. Made it work.
> 
> *
> 
> wrote on teh PHONE


End file.
